


Bodies in Motion

by Synekdokee



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Allen is quite nice, First Time, Ken Doll Android Anatomy | Androids Have No Genitalia (Detroit: Become Human), Loss of Virginity, M/M, Non-Penetrative Sex, Oral Sex, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Public Speaking, smart-ass Connor, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-02-10 07:58:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18656245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synekdokee/pseuds/Synekdokee
Summary: “Jesus,” Allen startles, nearly splashing his drink. Connor steadies it with his hand, applying just the right amount of counter-tilt to stop the sloshing in the mug. Allen frowns down at the cup.“Are you going to follow me around like a puppy?” Allen asks, exasperated, and Connor ponders if the Captain and Hank have more in common than they know, or if there’s just something about Connor that people associate with dogs.





	Bodies in Motion

**Author's Note:**

> To the anon who asked for some Allen/Connor content. I do wish we had more of this ship!

“Connor, I have an assignment for you this week,” Fowler says one morning before Connor has barely had time to sit down at his desk.

Hank raises an eyebrow, folding his arms. “Just him?”

“They want him at a training seminar for hostage situations,” Fowler says, handing Connor a tablet. “Report to Captain Allen by nine.”

“Allen?” Hank scoffs. “The guy hates androids!”

Fowler shoots Hank a look. “So did you.”

 

The precinct is unfamiliar to Connor. It’s less modern than the main precinct, which Connor finds oddly charming. He asks for directions and is pointed to Allen’s office. He stands in front of the door, fiddling with the cuffs of his suit before steeling himself and knocking.

He’s used to anti-android sentiments, even now. People warm up slowly. He’s used to dealing with it on the job - Reed is still a vocal mouthpiece for human supremacy, which Connor has learned to tune out. Having handed Reed a beating in the evidence room in the hours leading to the revolution certainly made it easier to ignore him.

Still It’s not something he tolerates easily. He’s not sure where Allen stands on the current state of politics, but the overt hostility from their first and only case together is clear in Connor’s memories.

“Connor,” Allen says stiffly, giving him a jerky nod. He has his own coffee maker in the office, an old one with a glass pot and a stained heating top. The mug he’s pouring into is huge.

“Captain,” Connor greets him, closing the door behind himself. He stands awkwardly, not sure if he’s welcome to sit down.

“You must be the only detective in the city wearing a suit,” Allen says dryly, and Connor wonders if this is his idea of small talk.

“I find it makes me seem reliable,” Connor replies. He doesn’t mention that there’s a certain sense of comfort in the tidiness of suits - it’s like wearing a uniform, only this one doesn’t carry the emblems of his CyberLife pedigree.

Allen gives him a dubious look, but doesn’t comment.

“I trust you read the briefing?” He says, sitting down at his desk. Connor follows his example and sits down opposite him, hands folded neatly in his lap.

“Yes, sir. I’m happy to help any way I can - I’m sure the skills CyberLife gave me can be a valuable addition to the training material, thank you for consider me-”

 

Allen interrupts him with a raised hand. “This wasn’t my idea. I saw what you did at the Phillips household, and the report made its way to some higher-ups. They felt you’d be able to contribute.”

Connor flounders. “Yes, sir. I’ll do my best to impart any skills I think will be relevant to other officers.”

Allen eyes at him, and then lets out a low sound that Connor can’t discern whether it’s one of displeasure or satisfaction.

“Alright, let’s go,” Allen says, gulping down the rest of his coffee and slamming his mug down. Connor holds back the comment he wants to make about the drawbacks of caffeine and its effect on ulcers.

He’s been spending too much time around Hank.

 

Connor spends the morning’s psychology class standing behind Allen, hands behind his back and listening carefully. As much as he can contribute here, there’s also plenty that he can learn. There is an inherent part of being human that he’ll never be able to emulate, but understanding it will help him deal with suspects and victims alike.

It’s only when they pause for lunch when a young officer walking past catches sight of Connor’s LED.

“Hey, what’s the rust bucket doing here?” The officer calls out, eliciting a few laughs from around them.

Connor turns to look at the man, frowning slightly. He opens his mouth to reply, but Allen beats him to it.

“Well, for one, he outranks you by a mile,” he says, tone unfriendly. “And if you keep that up you’ll find yourself in a disciplinary hearing and sensitivity training.”

The officer stares, looking like a deer in headlights.

Allen steps closer, cocking his head and cupping his hand behind his ear.

“What do we say when we _accidentally_ offend a superior?”

The officer flounders, looking towards Connor, not quite meeting his eyes.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he says.

Connor nods. “Accepted,” he says softly. The officer glances at Allen, and then skitters out, head bowed down. The small crowd that has hung around to watch the scene unfold scatters.

Connor turns to Allen, giving him a regarding look.

“Technically I’m not his superior,” Connor says, hiding his amusement.

Allen shrugs. “That kind of behaviour is bad for the whole force, gotta weed it out fast.”

“Thank you,” Connor says, and Allen turns to look at him, surprised.

“For what?”

“For not allowing that kind of prejudice.”

Allen stares at him, and Connor thinks he sees a hint of embarrassment on his face.

“Yeah, don’t mention it,” Allen mutters, and heads towards the canteen. Connor trails after him, and Allen doesn’t notice until Connor points out that he’s currently pouring his fourth cup of coffee before noon.

“Jesus,” Allen startles, nearly splashing his drink. Connor steadies it with his hand, applying just the right amount of counter-tilt to stop the sloshing in the mug. Allen frowns down at the cup.

“Are you going to follow me around like a puppy?” Allen asks, exasperated, and Connor ponders if the Captain and Hank have more in common than they know, or if there’s just something about Connor that people associate with dogs.

“I don’t know anyone here,” Connor points out. “I’d like to join you for lunch, if you don’t mind.”

“Hell, suit yourself,” Allen mutters. Connor watches him pile his tray with food and then head towards an empty corner table.

Allen eats in silence, and Connor plays with his coin, rolling it over his knuckles and spinning it from finger to finger.

“What’s that?” Allen asks around his mouthful of salad. “Androids have nervous ticks?”

Connor pauses to consider. “It’s for calibration purposes. Though I suppose I tend to do it to keep my hands busy.”

“Do you have to think about it?” Allen asks, putting his fork down. His eyes track the movement of the coin over Connor’s knuckles and then around his palm.

“Not really. It’s… instinctual,” Connor says, tasting the word on his tongue. “I suppose humans would call it muscle memory.”

“Huh,” Allen says, still staring at the coin.

“Would you like to try?” Connor offers, holding the quarter between two fingers. Allen arches his brows and reaches for the coin, managing to fumble it over his folded thumb and forefinger. He flicks his thumb, and the coin flies up, and on its way down it misses Allen’s cupped palm and lands in his coffee with a splash.

Connor lets out a soft laugh at Allen’s dejected look.

“Never heard an android laugh before,” Allen says, looking a little surprised.

Connor cocks his head at him.

“You still think we’re machines,” he says. Allen makes a face, picking up his fork again.

“I mean, aren’t you?”

Connor shrugs. He wishes his coin wasn’t submerged in coffee right now.

“Aren’t humans just meat and bones?” He asks lightly. “Plenty of animals have similar features to humans. It’s not your biology that gives you humanity. Many of the classical philosophers agreed that there is more to the essence of a being than its descriptive properties”

Allen stares at him, face a little blank.

“I failed philosophy in college,” he finally says, shoveling meatloaf in his mouth.

Connor considers the exchange a win for him.

 

Connor doesn’t realise he’s never really spoken in public until he’s standing in the wings of the stage, watching a specialist finish his lecture.

Sure, he’d lead an army through the streets of Detroit, but the whole night of the revolution still feels like a dream. He’s about to be scrutinised by a room full of people eager to find fault in him.

He picks at the edges of his sleeves, trying to gain control of the multiple scenarios where the crowd turns against him, some of which have only minuscule differences.

“Nervous?” Allen asks, voice close to Connor’s ear, making him jump.

“A little.”

“I was joking. Didn’t think you guys get ner-”

“I’m becoming well aware you don’t think we possess any of the idiosyncrasies humans do, Captain,” Connor says a little testily, not taking his eyes off the podium.

Allen is quiet for a moment, and then he rests his hand on Connor’s shoulder, giving a reassuring squeeze.

“You’ll do fine. You were made for this, weren’t you?” He says, and this time his tone is light.

“Not really. I was made to put programmed expertise into practical use, not lecture about it to others,” Connor says stiffly.

“Right. Well. You could imagine them naked?”

Connor turns to stare at Allen.

Allen shifts on his feet.

“It’s a joke.”

“I don’t get it,” Connor says, confused.

“It’s a… Thing. Humans are vulnerable naked. If you’re feeling intimidated when performing in front of a crowd, you should imagine them naked.” Allen gives him a weak shrug.

“I see,” Connor says slowly, though he doesn’t, really. He understands humans have hang-ups about nudity, but he can’t empathise with it. He no more vulnerable without his clothes than he is without his skin. It’s just aesthetics, or a form of self-expression.

He eyes at Allen’s jeans and blue polo, wondering if Allen is expressing himself, or conforming. He seems like the type for whom either option is equally likely.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Allen says.

“I’d settle for a quarter,” Connor mutters. Allen huffs out a laugh,

“Hey, you still do that thing where you just upload yourself to a new body if you die?”

“No, Captain, not since CyberLife cut its ties to me. Why do you ask?”

Allen stuffs his hands in his pockets and gives Connor a sly look.

“Just figured, if you overheat and break down on the stage, you could've just done the resurrection thing.”

Connor narrows his eyes.

“Is that a joke?”

“Apparently not a very good one,” Allen sighs. “Look, you’ll do fine. And if you don’t, well…” He shrugs his shoulders. “Not like there’s anyone here who knows better than you. Just bullshit it.”

Connor nods slowly. “Fake it ‘till you make it?”

Allen grins. “Exactly. The human way.”

The guy on the stage wraps up his presentation, and suddenly Connor feels like there’s a small animal living inside his chest compartment. He runs diagnostics, but nothing seems to be loose, and yet he feels like there’s something rattling around inside him.

“Now, we have a specialist android here to give us a talk about the advantages of android protocols and the differences in dealing with androids and humans. Please listen carefully," the man drones, and looks up towards Connor.

Connor finds his joints have locked up. Every spring in him is coiled tight, he can’t make himself move.

He hears Allen heave a sigh, and then there are two firm hands on his shoulders, pushing firmly, until Connor has to step forwards or fall down flat on his face.

After that, it’s easier to take another step, and another, until he finds himself on center stage.

 

“But it’s stupid,” Connor says later, after the ordeal is over, at the hotel bar with Allen and a couple of Allen’s subordinates.

“I was under much more pressure, not to mention national, if not global scrutiny in November, a simple speech in front of my peers should not affect me. It has to be a program error.”

Allen rocks his beer glass from side to side.

“I deal with a lot hairier situations than public speaking on a regular basis, and I still about shit my pants every time I have to so much as give a presentation. It’s just part of being, er,” he hesitates. “Human?”

Connor feels pleased at his choice of words.

“I’ve been nervous before, but this was different,” he says. “I felt extreme physical discomfort.”

“Yeah, that’s how it goes,” one of the men, Roberts, says. He seems a little uneasy with Connor’s presence, avoiding eye contact and mostly speaking to Allen or his other team-mate, Kowalski. At least evasiveness is better than outright hostility, Connor thinks.

He looks at Allen.

“So you’re saying that I might never get used to it?”

“I don’t know,” Allen says, a little agitated now. “Aren’t you supposed to be an individual now? I’m sure there are self-help books to get you over stage fright, try one of those.”

Kowalski snickers. Connor hunches his shoulders, feeling defensive. He wishes he could drink, now. It feels unfair that everyone but him has the social shield of covering their mouths with their glasses or bottles and masking the silence with drinking.

Allen pats him awkwardly on the back.

“Don’t stress it, man. Doubt you’re gonna have to make a lot of speeches anyway - and who knows, you might get better at it. You did good up on the stage anyway.”

Connor gives him a small smile, and Allen darts his gaze away, uncharacteristically evasive.

 

Later in the elevator Allen leans back against the wall, hands in his pocket. His eyes are closed, and Connor watches him curiously. Allen in the field is tightly wound up, all efficiency and discipline. Allen off-duty is relaxed, his body language loose and easy and confident.

Connor wonders if he could learn that. People tell him he makes them nervous just the way he sits.

Allen cracks one open and gives him a lazy look. Connor can smell the hint of alcohol floating about him.

Then the elevator makes a pleasantly unthreatening sound and stops, the door opening. Allen pushes himself away from the wall and begins to move down the corridor. Connor remains.

Allen pauses, and then moves back, sticking his leg in front of the sensor in the doors.

“Your room not up here?” He asks.

“I don’t have a room,” Connor says, spreading his palms wide. “I don’t sleep.”

“Right. But you’re gonna need a place to spend the night, don’t you?”

“Not really, I can survive for one night,” Connor says. Then something about the way Allen is looking at him registers with him. He cocks his head to the side.

“Although… It would be nice not to have to sit in the lobby.”

Allen nods slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s what I’m saying. You can share mine.”

Connor gives him a long look, and Allen doesn’t evade it.

“Thank you, Captain,” Connor says softly, and steps past Allen into the corridor.

The moment the heavy hotel room door clicks closed behind them, Connor reaches for Allen’s hand, pulling him back and drawing him into a kiss.

“Fuck, oh-kay,” Allen stutters, and then slides a hand behind Connor’s neck, holding him still while deepening the kiss.

Connor lets out a soft moan as Allen’s saliva touches his tongue. There’s so much information there, so much to sparse, his processors on overtime.

“Hey, you okay?” Allen asks, pulling away a little.

Connor blinks, and then nods.

“I’m fine, just. New,” he says. It’s hard to form a coherent sentence, he finds.

Allen laughs, a soft, huffy sound.

“You learn fast, though, don’t you?”

Connor gives him a grin, and when he steps his thigh between Allen’s, Allen’s face goes a little slack.

“Very quickly, sir,” Connor says, and gives Allen a gentle push backwards, toppling him onto the bed.

“Jesus. You’re not gonna go all terminator on me, are you?” Allen asks with a nervous laugh.

“I guess they forgot to tell me about the part where the terminator sleeps with Sarah,” Connor says, climbing on the bed to straddle Allen’s hips.

“I thought I was more like John,” Allen says weakly, but Connor ignores him, instead sliding his hands under Allen’s shirt, feeling the soft skin and hard muscle there.

“Do you actually know what you’re doing?" Allen asks, one hand resting on Connor’s hip, playing with his belt.

“If you people managed to figure it out, how hard can it be?” Connor drawls, pushing Allen’s shirt up and off of him. It makes Allen’s hair stand up, a sort of a funny sight.

“That’s- not funny,” Allen huffs, but there’s a glimmer in his eye that says otherwise. Connor smirks at him, and slowly begins to undo his tie.

“Oh, okay,” Allen says softly, his thumbs rubbing circles into Connor’s hips. There’s an intensity in his eyes as he watches Connor begin to unbutton his shirt, something hungry about how he looks at Connor.

No one has ever looked at him like that. Connor decides he likes it.

He shifts, and the curve of his buttocks brush across Allen’s lap, over the swell of his erection. Allen groans, one hand sliding to grip Connor’s thigh.

“Not to pressure you or anything…” he says, fingering Connor’s belt buckle. Connor nods, shrugging his shirt off and undoing his pants quickly, shoving them down and off his legs.

Allen stares.

“I wasn’t really… expecting that,” he says eventually.

Connor slides his hand down his chest, down his belly, and cups it around his smooth pubic mound. It feels good - he doesn’t know it’s similar to human arousal, but to Connor it feels good. And if he applies pressure-

He lets out a soft gasp, curving his hips back, and Allen gives him a wide-eyed look.

“Okay, I get it,” he says, wrapping an arm around Connor’s waist and pulling him down, rolling them over until he’s on top. Connor moves his hand away, his whole body tingling with want.

Allen pushes his pants off, and then he’s pressed up against Connor, their hips flush, Allen’s lips on the curve of Connor’s jaw.

“Shit, you’re warm,” Allen pants rolling his hips against Connor’s, sliding against the empty space between Connor’s legs. The skin there flickers and withdraws, and Allen looks down and between them, stilling as he watches Connor’s skin retract.

“Hey, that’s kinda cool,” he says, sounding a little dazed. Connor makes a frustrated sound and drags him into a kiss, his legs wrapping around Allen’s hips as he bucks up, rutting against Allen’s swollen cock.

Allen laughs into the kiss, a warm huff against Connor’s lips. He arches his backs and rocks down, rubbing against Connor shamelessly, murmuring encouragement in Connor’s ear.

It’s hard for Connor to concentrate - the stimulation and the pleasure is almost too much, a tension inside him that keeps building, his synthetic muscles stuttering as he moves, every circuit charged up.

It’s a lot less graceful than Connor had expected - Allen grunts against his neck as he rocks against Connor, the heat of his cock dragging against Connor’s chassis, making him twitch with pleasure. Connor whines, his thirium pump hammering in his chest at a furious pace, and something inside him chirping, mechanical little trills that Connor can’t control.

Allen is so warm on top of him, heavy and solid. Connor caresses his back and feels the way his muscles tense and flex, how his spine dips and his whole frame shudders when Connor cants his hips up just so.

“Sir,” Connor moans, and Allen chokes out a laugh.

“Not in bed, Connor,” he says, and muffles what could be a giggle against Connor’s throat.

“I- _Charles_?” Connor asks breathily, and _that_ is definitely a giggle.

“Christ,” Allen says, lifting his head up, but the look on his face doesn’t seem displeased.

“Just call me Charlie - or do nick-names go against your programming?”

“You know, you’re quite rude,” Connor complains, but then Allen is pressing a kiss to his jaw, and then on his chest, moving down his body, to his belly and still lower, until he’s between Connor’s thighs.

“Shit, I’ll make it up to you,” Allen says, flashing him a boyish grin, and Connor understands what it means when people say “swept me off my feet”.

And then Allen’s mouth presses against his pubic mound, and then a wet tongue, and fingers pressing lower, and Connor lets out a hoarse cry, writhing on the bed.

“God, A- Ch-Charlie!” Connor shouts, arching his back and throwing his head back, so overwhelmed by the sensation of pure pleasure.

Allen doesn’t let up, just keeps sucking and laving at Connor’s sensitive crotch, and it can’t be that fun for him but Connor doesn’t care, Christ, he’s never felt anything like this before. It builds in his gut like a ball of electricity, a foreign tension that keeps mounting, and he doesn’t want it to ever end.

And then Allen’s teeth scrape against Connor’s chassis, and it’s like a surge through him, just a little too much for him to handle anymore. Connor cries out, voice grainy with the strain as he shakes apart under Allen, his limbs twitching while his body and brain recalibrate.

“Jesus,” Allen breathes, staring up at him. “You okay?”

Connor closes his eyes, and then opens them, nodding down at Allen. He has to try a few times before he can make his voice work.

“Yes. Thank you,” he says, voice weak and a little staticky.

Allen nods, and then sits up on his knees. His cock is still hard, curving against his belly, flushed and hard and leaking at the tip. Before Connor can make a move Allen shuffles forwards and takes himself in hand, beginning to stroke himself with one hand on the swell of Connor’s hip.

Connor can’t look away. He can hear Allen panting softly, can hear him swallow, but he can’t take his eyes off the way his cock looks, wrapped in his fist and the tip wet with precome. He’d like to taste it, but he’s too weak to move, and before he can request that Allen move up on the bed Allen lets out a soft, stifled groan, his back going stiff, and then he’s coming all over Connor’s belly, his semen dripping on Connor’s skin.

“Shit,” Allen gasps, slouching forward before lying down on the bed by Connor’s side.

“Told you it wasn’t that hard,” Connor muses, and Allen smacks his arm lightly.

“Was that really your first, er-” he pauses, clearly looking for a tactful way to phrase himself.

“First everything, yes,” Connor says dryly.

“Oh, okay,” Allen says. “Hope it was. You know.” He waves his hand in the air in a vague gesture.

“Would you like me to rate you?” Connor asks, tone polite. “On a scale from four to ten, how well did Captain Allen perform while eating you-”

“Thanks! Great,” Allen says hurriedly, smacking his palm over Connor’s mouth. “Christ, you’re a kind of prick. Whatever happened to pillow-talk?”

“I hear it died in the 20s,” Connor says cheerfully, but he turns to his side and slides a leg over Allen’s thigh, inching his head to rest on Allen’s shoulder. “Better?”

Allen makes a mock-disgruntled sound, resting his hand on Connor’s waist.

Connor suspects there will be an awkward conversation in the near future - perhaps in the morning, when Allen’s beer-high is gone and the second guessing begins. Connor will be prepared, but in the meanwhile he enjoys the looseness in his joints, the way his body feels relaxed, an object at rest.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on:  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/SynTurtle)  
> [Tumblr.](http://roomfullofcunts.tumblr.com/)  
> 


End file.
